Page 39 of The Unexpected

He cocks his head, as if recalibrating. “Should have guessed.”

Stella blinks, then smiles at me. “You don’t have the neck tattoo, though. Isn’t that required?”

I find the grin somewhere inside myself. “Nah, that’s just from the movies, although some guys do it. Trust me, I picked up a lot of bad shit during my time in the service, but I didn’t pick that one up.”

She laughs, a bright, warm sound, and the room feels less empty.

The risotto finishes. I kill the heat, fold in butter, then plate three servings into shallow bowls. The action feels practiced—first hers, then mine, then Hunter’s last. I pour the wine, slide a glass each to the two of them, and then lift mine in salute.

“To bad shit,” Hunter says, before anyone else can. The words crackle in the air.

“To bad shit and new friends,” I say, and clink glass to glass.

Stella lifts hers, but says nothing, just sips. Her lips leave a perfect crescent on the glass. She sets it down gently, and I see the tips of her fingers are shaking just the tiniest bit.

We eat in silence for a minute, the only sound the scrape of spoons on porcelain and the low hum of the fridge cycling. The wine is cold, and it cuts the butter on the tongue; the acid wakes up the rosemary, brings out the heat in the cracked pepper. I can tell from Stella’s face that she’s never had anything like it.

Hunter is less impressed. He eats with the efficiency of someone used to power lunches, but he doesn’t miss a thing.

After a while, he sits back and studies me over the rim of his glass. “So, O’Toole. You get a lot of parishioners like us?”

The question lands like a shot across the bow, but I’m ready. “No, not at all.”

He nods, satisfied, then turns to Stella. “You going to ask him, or should I?”

She sets her fork down, folds her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to, but I know I should. Do you know my parents, Lachlan?” she asks, and then, as if catching herself, corrects: “My dad, really. Thomas Moreland. He and his fiancee, Andie, are regulars at Trinity.”

She says the name “fiancee” with a soft click, like she’s not used to it. I clock the shift, and so does Hunter, who just nods for her to go on.

I consider the question. “I know the names. Not sure I’ve ever met them, but Pamela probably knows them. She’s the senior pastor.”

Stella nods, and there’s a faint flush climbing her cheekbones. “Yeah, and the whole thing is weird, to be honest. They went for pre-marital counseling at Trinity with Pamela, and I can imagine what they spoke about because my dad’s getting married to my college best friend. I know it sounds like a porn reel, but it’s real life. I set them up without meaning to.”

Hunter laughs, low and rumbling. “Stella’s life is just one long string of porn reels.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, she glances at me, and there’s a vulnerability there I haven’t seen before. “What about you?” she asks. “Family?”

I shake my head. “None left, and that was before the Marines.”

Hunter sips his wine, sets the glass down with a click. “So why the church?”

I answer honestly, because what do I have to lose? “After everything I’ve experienced, I wanted to believe in something. The Corps will teach you about God, but mostly by subtraction. I wanted to figure out if there was a way to live that didn’t rely on violence. Or at least, not only on violence.”

He nods. “I get that.”

Stella toys with her wine glass, then asks: “Are you allowed to hear confession?”

“Yes, if there’s a need,” I say. “Also, I’m not Catholic.”

She grins at that. “Well, you could have fooled me with the celibacy.”

Hunter barks a laugh, and I let myself join in. The sound is rough, but it breaks the tension.

We finish dinner. I take the bowls, rinse them in the sink, let them clatter just a little. Behind me, Stella and Hunter talk in low tones; I don’t listen, not because I’m not interested, but because I respect their privacy, especially in this small space.

When I turn, Stella is watching me, her chin resting on her hands, elbows on the counter. Her dress has shifted higher up her thighs, and she doesn’t seem to care.

Hunter says, “Stella’s had a rough week. She’s still a little sore.”